


Eiffel Towers in Gold

by Army C (arh581958)



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Anal Fingering, BAMF!Ian, BAMF!Mickey, Boyfriends, Dirty Dancing, Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, Explicit Language, Gratuitous Smut, Homophobic Language, IAN GALLAGHER'S HOT AS FUCK LEGS NEEDS MORE APPRECIATION, Jealous!Mickey, M/M, Plot What Plot, Porn, Porn Without Plot, Shameless Smut, Slight feminization, Smut, Spit As Lube, anal penetration, bareback, dancer!Ian, future!fic, so much build up to the smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-03
Updated: 2016-08-03
Packaged: 2018-07-29 02:50:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7667422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arh581958/pseuds/Army%20C
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a little surprise in store for Mickey when he stays in the club for Ian's shift, and then ends up discovering a kink that he never knew about. Mickey didn't know exactly what to expect when Ian strode onto the stage in gold f*cking heels, neither did he anticipate how much the added height made for a better angle when f*cking. </p><p>(Or: a shameless attempt to exploit Ian Gallagher's long legs because so few people in the fandom have noticed them aka <i>Ian in heels<i>.)</i></i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Eiffel Towers in Gold

**Author's Note:**

> So... I haven't written much since Gallavich week. I intended to write a one-shot with Mickey and Ian playing with Ben Wa Beads but ended up watching Yanis Marshall Youtube clips instead. He is sex on legs in the way that I imagine Ian being sex on legs. Also, this came about because most of the fics I read have people obsessing about Mickey's stubbly legs but not enough people obsessing about Ian's long-as-fuck legs covered in ginger hair that's oh-so-fucking hot. So yes, imagine those very legs in a pair of high stiletto-heeled gladiator heels with that nine-inch bulge staring Mickey in the face. Feel the sexually frustrated pain.
> 
> **Not Beta Read. Open for Volunteers.**

The lights, as per usual, dimly lit up the vast expanse of the floor. Mickey made his way to his regular spot—a bar stool at the end of the bar where Jerry, one of the bartenders, served him beers every couple of hours while he watched his boyfriend grind against thin air in front of perverted old viagroids all night long.

He didn’t know how much longer he can take of this, but he knew that he wasn’t one to talk. Being a high school dropout, peddling guns and drugs, scamming old geezers, and running the Rub N’ Tug can only get so rake in so much cash. Raising a baby was expensive but sending a boy to college was even more so, and Mickey _wanted_ to send Ian to finish what he had started.

“Hey, Mickey, excited for tonight?” Jerry asked while sliding the obligatory first beer across the bar. He was a relatively nice guy. Sure, he made the mistake of hitting on Mickey when he thought that the guy was just another regular. Ian remedied that situation with a couple forearm rammed up his neck and no hard feelings.

Mickey took a sip from the bottle and cocked his head. “What’s fun in this?” He spat, gesturing with the beer in hand. “Watching my boyfriend gyrate his fucking hips in front of all these fucking losers? And—” he twisted his face in disgust, “—what’s with all the fagginess bein’ extra faggy?” He pointed to the streamers of gold and silver hanging all over the place, making it look gaudier than usual.

“It’s _Girls’ Night_ ,” Jerry told him with an amused look. “Curtis didn’t tell you, huh?”

“What the fuck is that? Don’t see any skanks here.” Mickey surveyed the room, just in case, and he was right. It was still the same old fucking old people, over-perfumed queens, and regular-joes-who-weren’t-really-all-that-regular lining up by the stage when the platform lights turned on. “I don’t get what’s fucking special.”

“Oh, you’ll see,” Jerry replied somewhat cryptically. “You might want to find a better place though. I hear that the view from center stage will be quite _amazing_.”

Mickey flipped the guy off but followed nonetheless. Ian’s regular platform was empty and his boyfriend promised to be out in fifteen minutes. About fifteen or so minutes had passed since he last saw his ginger giant and, if Jerry’s knowing looks were anything to go by, Ian would most probably end up being on center stage for whatever-the-fuck performance the boys were doing tonight.

A march, he heard it clear as day, pairs of feet stomping down against the hard wooden floorboards of the stage in synchronized rhythm—a single steady beat. For some god-awful reason, or probably to add to the dramatic effect, two smoke-machines spewed out a thick fog just as the dancers strode onto the stage. People, of course, cheered, cat-called, and whistled like true perverts.

Boys in skimpy-as-fuck booty shorts walked onto the platform while swaying their hips to wavy-ass music. It was faggy and gay as shit, obviously everyone’s choice of poison by the way Benjamins were being waved around like they were Georges.

Mickey, on the other hand, was only looking for one particular dancer in the crowd.

“What the fuck?” He barely had time to ask himself when another wave of foggy mist got sprayed and the last person to join the group entered from center stage. It was Ian fucking Gallagher in all of his pale freckled glory for all the world to see.

Mickey saw the variation in tonight’s make-up—more glitter, more gold. The make-up made his eye look brighter, his skin looked shinier, and _those fucking shorts_ made his bulge stand-out from the rest. Ian wasn’t even hard, and yet the contour of his cock trapped in the tight-as-fuck spandex looked like absolute sin, making Mickey’s mouth water.

Only… that wasn’t the only thing that Mickey saw.

Fuck.

Were those _heels_?!

Mickey had to do a double take as he took in his boyfriend’s whole façade from top to bottom—especially the bottom where Ian’s usual golden sneakers were exchanged for a pair of spectacularly high-as-the-Eiffel heels, gold heels whish wrapped sinfully over his calves up to his knees. Mickey’s only seen those things in movies and always wondered how those actresses moved around in them. Now, he wondered how _Ian_ moved around in the walking death-traps.

“The fuck is this?”

He saw Ian trying discreetly to search the patrons. Even with the low lighting, it was obvious where those kaleidoscope green eyes were looking at and _who_ they were looking for.

Mickey smirked to himself and let out a low whistle. It was enough to get Ian’s attention to him where he stood at the near back of the crowd but somewhere near the center. Jerry was right; the view definitely was better from here than from the bar. He made a mental note to leave a tip at the bar, if he ever made it back to the bar.

Ian flashed a smile, not the regular old fake smile that he normally put on for his patrons but a small kind-of shy-looking boyish smile, directed to Mickey alone, as if he wasn’t very sure that he looked anything but all kinds of hot in golden heels, golden booty shorts, and golden singlet. It was him asking for a silent answer if this type of thing was all right.

They haven’t really explored much in the bedroom since the Ben Wa Beads. Lube and condoms were expensive enough as it was, and they didn’t need things like batteries and bath water to be added to their list of expenses. Those heels though looked fucking expensive. They weren’t the regular old pair of sequined cheap shit from the mall. Nope, not with the dark red bottoms.

Mickey trailed his eyes up Ian’s whole length and unconsciously licked his lips. He didn’t give Ian enough credit for being able to pound his ass for four rounds straight, hold up his entire weight against the wall, or just being able to run those goddamn miles every single day because _holy fuck_ —those legs were crafted by gods themselves: smooth, slender, and strong.

Wrapped in the strappy gladiator heels, they looked ten times better than just being bare. He wanted to run his teeth against it, lick in between the slits, have those buckles against his face. Then, maybe, he could fuck Ian for a change of pace and have all of _that_ wrapped around his waist and marking up his lower back.

He looked at Ian again, straight in the eye, hoping that he could translate all of that in a single glance. It seemed to work seeing as the normally poker-faced Curtis suddenly had a small blush creeping up his cheeks, and it wasn’t from the dancing. Thankfully, none of the old farts stared at his face long enough to notice.

Then, Ian started to dance and Mickey realized that it wasn’t just some fucking hip-gyrating thing that the ginger normally did every shift but the shit was fucking _choreographed_ or something—with Ian at the fucking center of it all. It was obvious that the dance was created for him, or he at least had part in choreographing the whole thing because it worked perfectly with his height and long limbs. Every movement from legs to the tips of his fingers flawed seamlessly from one to the other.

It was a fast-paced song that involved a lot of jerky movements. With every snap, with every stomp on the floor, it felt like Ian dominated the entire stage with his presence on the dance floor. He licked his lips once before getting into the chorus, eyes attached to Mickeys. He moved his shoulder, played with his fingers, using every single ounce of muscle in every movement which caught everyone’s attention.

Mickey could only stare, mouth gaping, as his boyfriend slid across the stage floor and pumped his hips into the air just like he would when they were fucking. It was almost as if Ian was fucking a phantom him up on that stage in reverse cowboy position, licking up his ear, while grinding his cock deeply into the secret spot inside that made Mickey believe in god again.

When that was gone, Ian crawled up to his knees and, in a very similar fashion, fucked an imaginary Mickey on stage while kneeling with his hands on make-shift bed frames made of other dancer’s forearms. Then, his arms moved down so that he could tempt Mickey even more by toying with the hem of his shirt and bringing it up, exposing his rock-hard washboard abs as he rolled his back.

Mickey wanted to run his tongue all over that, body glitter or no body glitter. He just needed to touch his fucking Gallagher before the rest of these fuckheads thought of anything funny.

“Fuck off,” he snarled at the last man separating him from his hot-as-fuck ginger-assed boyfriend and hauled Ian down by the collar of his singlet to bring their lips together.

Surprisingly enough, Ian seemed to anticipate this very motion because he didn’t stop dancing. Instead, he started humping the floor, heels in the air, and moaning into the kiss. Mickey held firm, even with the height difference of three-foot stage, even if he had to kneel on the grimy floor. He clutched at the back of Ian’s growing hair, right at the back where the most of the slicked-back style was loose.

There were crowd cat-calls and whistles from the other dancers, and a couple of disappointed groans from the audience, but Mickey didn’t care. He flipped them all off with both hands before diving back in and fucking Ian’s mouth with his tongue.

And _fuck_ , if the taste of himself on Ian’s lips wasn’t a fucking turn on.

“Damnit, Gallagher, you need to fuck me.” He whispered just loud enough for Ian to hear, feeling Ian smirk against his lips.

“Oh yea?” Ian’s tongue came out to play, giving as good as he got, fucking Mickey back as their tongue fought for dominance. “I just started my shift.”

Mickey let out a whine. “Then you can at least make me cum in my damn pants!”

“Deal.”

Ian pushed Mickey back and pounced, landing on top of the shorter man, with a mischievous glint in his eyes. He grabbed Mickey wrists, pining it above the dark curls, and leaning in just long enough to whisper, “Stay there and let me work, Mickey, and I’ll bring it all back when I get home,” against Mickey’s kiss-swollen red lips. “Is that a yes?”

With Ian all sexed-up above him, Mickey was powerless except to nod.

Ian grinned, and Mickey’s world exploded above him when the Ian continued his little dance. Mickey couldn’t think of anything else but laughing out loud as Ian body-crawled over him just like he did this morning in bed when he woke Mickey up to a morning blow job, face inches away from Mickey’s skin and breath blowing over Mickey’s half-chub.

“Fuck, Gallagher!” Mickey threw his head back but kept his arms still, just the way Ian liked it.

“Who’s that babe?” Ian husked back, smiling when he saw Mickey struggling to keep position. He licked his lips again and ran his tongue over his finger before trailing it up Mickey’s face. “Ain’t no Gallagher here, hotstuff, just lil’ ol’ Curtis.” Then he ground his bulge into Mickey’s hips.

“Fuck!”

Ian kept twerking his way up and down Mickey’s body. At one point, he flipped positions so that he could ground his cock into Mickey’s face—well, almost. He pulled Mickey’s legs up until both feet were planted on the ground. Hands clutching Mickey’s knees, he started to gyrate his hips in rhythm to the song again.

Mickey, on the other hand, couldn’t think past the fact that the position gave him a perfect view of Ian’s tight round ass, flexing leg muscles, and _those calves_ which he normally didn’t appreciate enough. He _had_ to touch, and he did, palming the sweat-damp skin and the cold metal of the buckles. His fingers dug under the thin gold straps while Ian straddled him. He nearly reached the ass before Ian slapped his hands away.

“Behave,” came the warning.

With a small jump, Ian landed on his feet again, those sky-high pointy heels right by Mickey’s head with his hands still braced on Mickey’s knees as he twerked over his boyfriend’s face. Mickey held onto Ian’s calves on instinct and arched his back, wanting _any_ part of his body to touch Ian more, get more skin, get more contact, get more heat, anything at all as long as it was Ian.

“Ian, c’mon, you’re killing me here!” He could smell skin, sweat, and spandex, but mostly he can smell _Ian_ underneath all of the synthetic things. He smelled the way Ian mingled with everything, and the way in transcended it all. The urge to touch and _taste_ ached inside him. “C’mon, man, c’mon.”

Ian’s cock and balls were _inches_ —Mickey arched his neck forward in _need_ of a taste—from his face. To make things worse—much, much, worse—for Mickey, Ian decided to sit on his face as the song ended, bring the pungent ball-sweat shooting straight up Mickey’s nostrils and making his cock jump from uninterested to _hard as fuck_ in less than a second. He groaned into Ian’s balls just by the scent of him.

The cash came pouring down like rain. Mickey should be sweeping the stage to gather-up all the Benjamins decorating the floor. (Who the fuck knew queens had so much fucking money?!) Instead, though, he could think of nothing else but hauling Ian’s ass to the nearest restroom to get ass-fucked into next week by his very sexy boyfriend.

Ian was laughing and smiling above him. “Come on, Mickey, it’s a whole month’s rent on the floor!” He giggled—actually fucking _giggled_ —while gathering up the bills in his open hand and accepting even bigger bills inside his booty shorts. One particular douche went so far as to nudge a finger down his crease.

Mickey’s hand shot out automatically with a threatening snarl on his lips.

“Hands off the merchandise, asshole.” To be sure, he curled his fingers until he heard the sickening crunch of fingers, making the guy yelp. Bouncers were on the guy in an instant. “About damn time!” Mickey snarled, still glaring at the poor guy who needed a trip to the hospital. “Serves you damn right, fucker!”

“Mickey,” Ian’s voice was softer than his hand on Mickey’s shoulder. He looked sweaty and oh-so-hot in a flushed but not quite sex fashion—hair falling all over the place where the gel was washed away, body glittery under the shining multicolored lights, and that gorgeous megawatt smile on his face that only appeared when Mickey did something Ian deemed _cute_.

Mickey wanted to change that sooner rather than later. He was about to burst and his pants. “You done picking up rent?”

“Yeah,” Ian grinned, leaning in to peck Mickey on the lips, “Electricity and water bills too. Wanna help me get out of this shit?”

“Fuck yeah,” Mickey chased Ian’s lips when his boyfriend pulled away. “Now,” he growled pulling Ian back, by the neck, and connecting their lips together. Ian did his best to stuff Mickey’s pocket’s full of cash to free up his hands then picking up his boyfriend like Mickey weighed little to nothing, which wasn’t the case in the least. Hell, he knew he weighed more than Ian by a few pounds.

Hands went to cup Mickey’s ass, pushing a few more bills into the back pockets while Ian kneaded his hands. Mickey wrapped his legs around Ian’s hips on instinct and wound his arms around Ian’s neck to a better hold. He could feel them walking across the club, faintly hear the hollers in the background, and see the lights pass behind his closed eyes but all he could think about was Ian all around him.

They were in the bathroom in the next instant. Mickey was being deposited on the counter while Ian went to lock the door. As quickly as they came, Ian had him bent over the counter with his pants down to his knees, marble digging hard against his stomach and face pressed into the mirror. Behind him, Ian threw a feral grin over his shoulder before licking his finger suggestively.

“You want it, Mick?” He asked through the mirror.

“Yeah,” Mickey pushed his hips back, “Fuck, yeah.”

Ian leaned in, slaving Mickey’s ear just like he did with his finger. “Tell me what you want, Mick.”

Mickey kept staring into Ian’s eyes as he keened. “Fuck me, Gallagher, get the fuck on, you look so fucking hot, I wanna see if you pound better with those high-heels on.” That was something he never imagined saying, and let alone be aroused by but it sounded so fucking tempting right now. “Come on, Firecrotch, I know you’ve been dying to fuck me on that dance floo—” he cut off when Ian’s finger slid into him cleanly. “ _Fuck_ , yeah, like that.”

“You’re so fucking hot like this, Mick,” Ian mumbled gibberish into his shoulder but all Mickey concentrated on was the fingers prepping him for Ian’s nine-inch cock. “So fucking hot when you actually broke that douchebag’s fingers for me back there. So fucking hot Mick ‘cause I know your fingers can be gentle when you want them to be.” Just for effect he grabbed one of Mickey’s hands off the counter and kissed the F-U-C-K tattooed on the knuckles.

“Sh—shut up and fuck me,” Mickey panted as Ian scissored his long fingers inside him. It was less than a day since they last fucked. They fucked that morning, after lunch, and in the shower just before Ian went for work but Mickey was still tight as the first time they ever did it. He cursed and loved that fact—cursed that he still needed so much prep but loved the stretch of Ian’s girth pushing him open.

“So hot, Mick, take it so well.”

“I’m good.” Mickey would deny begging. “I’m good.” He reached back and tried to grab Ian’s ass but with the added height of the heels he got a fist full of thighs instead.

Ian wordlessly pulled down his short, hot cock springing free and catching the back of Mickey’s thigh. They both shuddered at the contact. “Ease up,” he barked, pushing Mickey further against the counter, “I’m too tall for this shit.”

“You’re a fucking giant already and you go wear those things! You nearly poked my fucking eye out!” Mickey griped back as the counter dug painfully into his thighs and his erection bobbed free onto the sink. “Get the fuck on me!”

Ian did, in one smooth stroke, angle different because of the added five inches, and hitting Mickey’s sweet spot on the first try.

“Holy, fucking _fuck_!” Mickey yelled, vision turning white when Ian set a brutal pace, pistoning his hips in and out, cockhead brushing that tender spot inside of him. “Jesus, fuck, fuck,” he couldn’t think. He couldn’t breathe. He was tipping over the edge of the world and losing balance until Ian’s hand found his over the fogged up mirror and laced their fingers together.

They were forgetting something but Mickey didn’t care. Ian was behind him, fucking him, bringing them together for all the months that they lost. “Ian,” the name started out as a whisper but steadily grew stronger, “Ian, Ian, Ian, c’mon, fuck, Ian, I—I—Ian, god!”

Ian’s other hand landed on his hip, red hot and solid, tight enough to leave bruises.

Mickey cracked an eye open to see red-faced Ian Gallagher with his face flushed in exertion as he rammed his enormous cock into his ass, see pearly white teeth biting down on his lips, and missing the vivid green eyes because they were closed in ecstasy. He shifted his gaze to where their fingers were entwined against the mirror and thought of the very first time Ian grabbed his hand in the cold backroom freezer.

This was different. That memory came from so long ago but the feeling—that faggy fluttery feeling—inside his chest remained the same. He squeezed Ian’s hand and Ian squeezed back. Then, with no small amount of determination, started to push back, meeting Ian’s hips, thrust per thrust, sending echoes of skin slapping against skin in the small one-man room.

“Mickey.” Ian chose that very moment to open his eyes, and Mickey came all over the sink with a single stroke on his underside. After that, he continued to fuck Mickey, assaulting and milking his prostrate through the rest of the orgasm until he followed several thrusts later.

Mickey felt the flood of heat splashing over his inner walls and realized what they had forgotten. Ian’s cock was throbbing and hard, spewing out load after load into him. “The fuck, Gallagher,” he barely managed to see because the intimacy of that moment—even inside a dingy bathroom stall in the most clichéd moment of gay hook-ups imaginable—made him cum for a second time in a row.

Ian seemed to realize it too and he frantically tried to pull out but Mickey’s hand on his thigh stopped him.

“Move before I’m ready and I’m ripping that dick off, Firecrotch!” Mickey hissed, unwilling to say that he wanted to relish in the moment a bit more. Ian’s eyes grew wide through the mirror but relented, draping himself all over Mickey’s back and enveloping them into a cocoon of heat.

“So you like the heels, huh?” Ian grinned, kissing Mickey lightly on the neck. “Should I be worried about it, Mick?”

Mickey rolled his eyes. “I ain’t fucking give a hit about your footwear, Gallagher—” but then he stopped and bit his lip, eyes raking over Ian’s form—particularly over his bubble butt—through the mirror. “Makes you look like you have an ass though.”

Ian laughed into his neck, the vibrations transferring from his chest to Mickey’s back. When he peeled himself off, his dick slipped free along with him, and a couple of cum droplets escaped Mickey’s hole. He pressed them back in with his finger before licking the digit clean.

“Fuck gross,” Mickey wrinkled his face as he turned around. “You kiss me with that mouth.” He could feel it moving inside him and he tried his best to keep his ass as clenched as possible to keep it from dripping down. It wasn’t a foreign feeling. They’ve barebacked a couple of times but habit and necessity made them both prefer the condom.

“I also eat your ass out with this mouth, Mick, before you shower.” Ian teased but wiped his finger off on the hem of Mickey’s shirt none the less. He stood at his full height, towering Mickey who was half leaning against the countertop. “You want a plug or d’you want me to clean you out before we leave?”

Mickey blinked in surprise. “You can _leave_? But ain’t you just startin’ with your shift?”

Ian chuckled. “Pretty sure that I’m considered AWOL now. We’ve been in here for almost an hour. Boss’ is probably gonna have my ass already so why don’t I just do it all the way, yeah?”

“The fuck?!” Mickey went to check his watch and, sure enough, it was nearly midnight. Then, it dawned on him, the first part of Ian’s question. “Wait—you have a butt plug? _Here_?”

“Boy scout,” Ian boasted with a smug look. “I know when to come prepared.”

“Bullshit,” Mickey retorted, “You should have come with lube then. My ass hurts like a motherfucker now since we only used spit.”

Ian leaned down, perfectly balanced in his heels, to capture Mickey’s mouth. “I’ll go get the plug and let’s go home. I’ll make it up to you all night long.”

Mickey pretended to think about that offer for a few seconds before hopping on the counter and hooking his legs at Ian’s thighs. “Deal… but only if those heels stay on.”

**Author's Note:**

> I kind of hate the title but it's an inside joke that I'm sure a lot of people will not get. On the brighter side, I am have several ideas for multichaptered stories. I am aiming to publish the first one _before _Season 7 comes out in October, and it's already at fifteen chapters as it is. I took a 2-week long hiatus from writing because it's election season in school and I had to help with the campaign. Oh well. I just needed this to kick-start by writing brain again... can you believe this whole thing took me a whole day instead of a couple of hours?! Argh!__
> 
> If you have a prompt or an idea, you can [INSPIRE ME](http://arh581958.tumblr.com/submit) on tumblr. Or [TALK TO ME](http://arh581958.tumblr.com/ask)~
> 
> As always, **kudos/comments/bookmarks** are all appreciated by this author. I take comments as extra-kudos and I _do_ read the bookmark tags (some are really fun).


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